Forbidden Embers

Chapter 5: The Bartender's Offer

The heavy door of The Rusty Nail swung shut behind Eva, but the damp, charged air of the bar clung to her skin like a second dress. Caleb’s taste was still a phantom bitterness at the back of her throat, his command echoing in the hollow of her chest. She took two steps onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, the neon sign painting her hands in lurid pink, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

It wasn’t a tap. It was an anchor.

She spun, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs. Marcus, the bartender, filled her vision. He’d been a shadow behind the mahogany, a quiet presence pouring whiskey. Now, up close, he was immense. The tribal ink snaking down his corded forearms seemed to writhe in the flickering light. His eyes, a calm, knowing grey, held hers without blinking. They traveled over her face, down to her slightly parted, swollen lips, then back up.

“You’re the one from the alley,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of question. It was a statement of fact, weathered and sure.

Eva’s breath caught. She saw the recognition there, the piecing together. He’d seen her with Marcus that first night, seen her leave disheveled and moon-eyed. Now he’d seen her with Caleb. She said nothing, her chin lifting in defiance that felt paper-thin.

His hand slid from her shoulder down to her wrist, his grip firm, encompassing. He didn’t ask. He turned and pulled her, not back into the main bar, but down a narrow, dim corridor smelling of stale mop water and spilled liquor. A dented metal door stood ajar. The office. He pushed it open, drew her inside, and kicked it shut. The click of the lock was deafening in the small, cluttered space.

A battered metal desk, stacked with invoices and empty bottle crates, dominated the room. A single bulb hung bare from the ceiling, casting hard shadows. He released her wrist. For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them crackling.

“That guy,” Marcus said, nodding toward the door, toward where Caleb still sat. “He thinks he owns something he just found.”

Eva found her voice, it came out a harsh scrape. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know the look.” He took a step closer. The space evaporated. She could smell the clean, soap scent on him, undercut by whiskey and sweat. “I know the smell.” His gaze was relentless. “You’re dripping for it, aren’t you? Still. Even after him.”

She wanted to deny it. But her body was a live wire, humming from Caleb’s use, and this was a different current altogether—older, deeper, more dangerous. Marcus had been the first. The alley was his.

He saw the truth in her silence. A dark, satisfied gleam lit his eyes. He moved then, with a terrifying efficiency. His hands were on her hips, spinning her, bending her forward over the cold, gritty metal of the desk. Papers scattered. Her palms flattened on the surface.

“Wait—” The word was breath, not protest.

He didn’t wait. His hands gathered the hem of her dress, pushing it up around her waist. The air was cool on her exposed skin. His fingers hooked into the sides of her silk panties and yanked them down to her ankles in one brutal, efficient motion. She was exposed, utterly. The grimy carpet filled her vision.

His calloused palm smoothed over the curve of her ass, a possessive, assessing stroke. Then his fingers slid between her legs from behind. He found her sopping wet, swollen, hot. A low, gruff sound escaped him. He pushed two thick fingers inside her, deep, curling them.

Eva gasped, her back arching. She was impossibly sensitive, every nerve alight.

“He got you worked up,” Marcus growled, his voice close to her ear as he leaned over her, his body a furnace at her back. His fingers f****d into her, slow and penetrating. “But he didn’t finish the job, did he? You’re still clenched tight, still hungry.” He scissored his fingers, stretching her. “You think he’s the only one who can make you scream?”

He withdrew his fingers with a wet sound. She heard the rustle of his jeans, the shift of fabric, the dull clink of a belt buckle. Then she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of him, the broad head of his c**k nudging against her soaked entrance. It was different from Caleb’s—thick, a relentless stretch.

He didn’t tease. He pushed forward, sinking into her in one long, devastating stroke. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound swallowed by the cramped room. He filled her completely, a deep, burning fullness that stole the air from her lungs. He was seated to the hilt, his hips flush against her ass.

“f**k,” he breathed, his body tensing over hers. “Still so f*****g tight.”

Then he moved. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in. The force drove her forward, her skin scraping against the desk. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, no finesse, just raw, driving need. Each thrust was a claim. His balls slapped wetly against her c**t with every drive, sending jagged sparks of sensation through her core. The room filled with the sounds of it: their ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the desk protesting under their weight.

Eva’s world narrowed to the heat splitting her open, to the coarse denim of his jeans scratching against her thighs, to the smell of s*x and dust and his skin. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick metal. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built low in her belly, a knot pulled impossibly tight.

“You gonna come for me?” he grunted, his pace never faltering, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise. “You gonna scream like you did in the alley? Do it.”

The command broke her. The coil snapped. A wave of brutal, convulsing pleasure tore through her, wringing a raw, ragged scream from her throat. It was less a sound of joy than of sheer annihilation. Her cunt clamped around him, milking his driving c**k as she shuddered against the desk.

Feeling her clench around him sent him over. With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself deep and pulsed. Hot jets of come flooded her, painting her insides. He held there, grinding into her, as the last shocks left his body.

Slowly, he pulled out. She felt the sudden, empty coolness, the drip of his release. He turned her around, her back against the desk. His eyes were dark, satiated, but that knowing gaze was still there. He looked down between her legs, at the mess he’d made of her. Without a word, he took himself in hand, gave two slow, firm strokes, and the last few spurts of come landed on her stomach, hot and stark against her skin.He tucked himself away, zipped up. He reached past her, grabbed a rag from a stack by a sink, and tossed it to her. It smelled of bleach.

“Clean up,” he said, his voice back to that calm, even rumble. He unlocked the door. The sounds of the bar filtered in, a distant, mundane world. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “The alley’s mine. Remember that.”

He left, pulling the door shut behind him. Eva stood trembling, the cooling wetness on her skin, the ache deep inside, the scent of him and s*x and bleach filling her nose. She looked at the closed door, then down at herself. A slow, shaky breath escaped her. She picked up the rag.

The heavy door of The Rusty Nail swung shut behind Eva, but the damp, charged air of the bar clung to her skin like a second dress. Caleb’s taste was still a phantom bitterness at the back of her throat, his command echoing in the hollow of her chest. She took two steps onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, the neon sign painting her hands in lurid pink, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

It wasn’t a tap. It was an anchor.

She spun, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs. Marcus, the bartender, filled her vision. He’d been a shadow behind the mahogany, a quiet presence pouring whiskey. Now, up close, he was immense. The tribal ink snaking down his corded forearms seemed to writhe in the flickering light. His eyes, a calm, knowing grey, held hers without blinking. They traveled over her face, down to her slightly parted, swollen lips, then back up.

“You’re the one from the alley,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of question. It was a statement of fact, weathered and sure.

Eva’s breath caught. She saw the recognition there, the piecing together. He’d seen her with Marcus that first night, seen her leave disheveled and moon-eyed. Now he’d seen her with Caleb. She said nothing, her chin lifting in defiance that felt paper-thin.

His hand slid from her shoulder down to her wrist, his grip firm, encompassing. He didn’t ask. He turned and pulled her, not back into the main bar, but down a narrow, dim corridor smelling of stale mop water and spilled liquor. A dented metal door stood ajar. The office. He pushed it open, drew her inside, and kicked it shut. The click of the lock was deafening in the small, cluttered space.

A battered metal desk, stacked with invoices and empty bottle crates, dominated the room. A single bulb hung bare from the ceiling, casting hard shadows. He released her wrist. For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them crackling.

“That guy,” Marcus said, nodding toward the door, toward where Caleb still sat. “He thinks he owns something he just found.”

Eva found her voice, it came out a harsh scrape. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know the look.” He took a step closer. The space evaporated. She could smell the clean, soap scent on him, undercut by whiskey and sweat. “I know the smell.” His gaze was relentless. “You’re dripping for it, aren’t you? Still. Even after him.”

She wanted to deny it. But her body was a live wire, humming from Caleb’s use, and this was a different current all together, older, deeper, more dangerous. Marcus had been the first. The alley was his.

He saw the truth in her silence. A dark, satisfied gleam lit his eyes. He moved then, with a terrifying efficiency. His hands were on her hips, spinning her, bending her forward over the cold, gritty metal of the desk. Papers scattered. Her palms flattened on the surface.

“Wait”